Birth of a Legend
by John Chandos
Summary: Returning from the war with Westmarch, the Warrior finds his country in disarray, his king dead, and unspeakable horrors lurking beneath the cathedral in Tristram. Join him in his battle against the darkness. A better summary is contained inside.


_**Author's Note**_

**After a long absence due to the beginning of college and a rather hectic schedule, I have returned to start anew, this time with a fic pertaining to the world of Diablo 1, a game series which I have been thoroughly addicted to as of late. What this will be is (those of you that may be familiar with my older Fallout fic, "New Wasteland, Same Problems" will quickly recognize the style of this) something of an 'epic' with a great deal of chapters, chronicling the story of Diablo 1 as seen through the eyes of the Warrior, the canonical hero of this game, as he and his allies attempt to prevail over the Lord of Terror. While centered on the events of Diablo 1, I will be adding a bit of extra flair to the story, so to speak, so it becomes less of a boring walkthrough of the game and more of a true story filled with scenes and depictions of love, loss, sorrow, hatred, action, corruption, and that all-intrusive evil that endears this old game to so many people. I hope you enjoy it, and I await your feedback eagerly.**

**Also, it is currently rated 'T' just to be safe, though I have no doubt that it will eventually switch to 'M' with the blood, gore, and generally foul language that will likely ensue.**

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><p>The tavern was particularly rowdy that night, as men laughed, smoked, gambled, and drank heavily, spilling drinks and attempting to drown their sorrows in the finest spirits the small inn had to offer. Thunder boomed loudly overhead as the rain outside continued to pour, drenching everything outside.<p>

A lone traveler sat at one of the tables, wrapped in a black cloak to keep out the rain. Despite the relative looseness of the cloak, it only took a glance to see that he was a powerfully built man with muscles that could only come from long hours of training and fighting. Strapped to his belt was a steel longsword, while his shield was leaning against the table, within arm's reach.

He had come back to Khanduras from the war against Westmarch after recovering from many wounds, only to find the country in complete and utter disarray. Dark rumors surrounded the capital of Tristram, particularly that of King Leoric's demise, and the supposed evil that lurked beneath the town's cathedral.

Many warriors had been drawn to Tristram, from crusading paladins and noble knights, to unscrupulous mercenaries and the humble peasant warrior, all of these adventurous men traveled to the now-desolate town to take on the evil that lurked there. Whether they were motivated by honor, valor, greed, or simply wanderlust was uncertain.

What was certain, however, was that despite the warnings of the citizens of Tristram, all those who went beneath the cathedral were never seen again.

And now, it was time for this particular cloaked traveler to take his own chances beneath the cathedral.

"Excuse me, serah," The traveler glanced up from beneath the hood of his cloak to find a young serving wench standing nearby, dressed in a rather typical brown peasant girl's dress. She looked to be in her teens, though she was still quite beautiful, with long, thick brown hair and fair skin and facial features. "Would you care for a refill?" She asks sweetly, gesturing towards the cloaked man's empty tankard sitting on the table before him.

"No, I've had quite enough." The traveler stands as the tavern wench skips away to the next table, taking the order of another pair of adventurers that had wandered in and just sat down at the table adjacent to him. He had agreed to allow himself a few moments out of the rain, to dry out and rest for a bit before continuing on the road to Tristram. Now, however, that time was over. It was finally time to confront the evil that plagued the capital. Drawing his cloak closer to his body, the traveler steps back out into the heavy rain, leaving the road-side tavern and heading out into the wilderness once more.

As he nears the town of Tristram, the fog that surrounded him began to become thicker and thicker, to the point of where it cloaked everything but a few feet of the road before him in its misty veil, obscuring all from sight. Finally, however, the traveler's eyes finally come to rest upon the town of Tristram beneath the rolling hills of the area. Before going down, however, something catches the traveler's eye.

Thunder booms ominously overhead as the traveler sets his sights on a nearby dead tree. Two people were hanging from the dead branches, each with a thick noose of rope tied about their throats. The traveler watches in morbid fascination as the strong wind causes the corpses to swing somewhat in the trees, the ropes creaking softly as the lifeless forms drift back and forth in the breeze.

Finally managing to break himself free from the sight, the traveler begins to descend the hillside, heading toward Tristram. The monolithic cathedral, now decrepit and appearing as though it could fall apart at any moment, towered over the ruined houses below it. Was this truly noble Tristram? Once a large, beautiful town filled with vibrant people and a happy atmosphere; now reduced to nothing but a dark, gloomy ruin filled with nothing but evil?

How was it possible for something so pure and beautiful to become so evil and tainted?

Entering the town, the traveler is quickly assailed by the unmistakeable stench of death and decay. The houses around him were about to fall apart, various burn markings and scratches in the wood marking each and every one of them. A windowpane slams loudly close by, causing the traveler to jump a bit. For a few tense moments, he waits directly in the center of the houses, right hand gripping the handle of his sword as his eyes carefully scanned the area. However, nothing approaches him. Shuddering softly, the traveler continues on. There was something in the air that just made him feel uneasy.

After wandering the ruins of Tristram for a bit, another noise catches his ears. This one, however, was far more... Normal. It sounded human, and thus lifted his spirits somewhat. Racing towards the sound, he soon finds a few houses that had not yet fallen into disrepair, one being what he instantly figured out to be the local tavern. Torch lights shone brightly from the windowpanes, cutting through both the fog and the heavy rain.

Finally. Perhaps someone could tell him a bit more of what was happening in Tristram. Striding up to the door, the traveler shoves it open carelessly, stepping into the warmth of the tavern.

Immediately, all conversation stops in the room as everyone there turns to look at him. The sudden tenseness and silence in the room was almost breath-taking. The traveler stands in the doorway for a few more moments, allowing the door to slide shut behind him.

"Hello, my friend. From where do you hail?" A kind-looking old man with a white beard, blue robes, and a cane shambles forward, deciding to be the first one to speak.

"My name is John Eden," The traveler responds, removing his hood to reveal a ruggedly handsome face with a fair amount of stubble, fair, white skin, cold, onyx black eyes and wild, shoulder-length black hair. "A warrior, by trade. I seek knowledge of what has happened to this town. If you know of what has happened, speak up." He finishes. All is silent once again.

"Then stay a while, and listen. Come, my friend, get closer to the fire. Your clothes are drenched." Allowing the old man to lead him on, John takes a seat next to a large, burly man wearing soot-stained, tattered clothing, who was puffing away at a tobacco pipe the whole time.

"Hello there, lad," The large man slaps him on the back in a friendly manner, perhaps a little 'too' friendly, as he nearly knocks John out of his chair. "Name's Griswold, the local blacksmith. You're not thinking of going into that church, are ya?" He asks. John readjusts himself in his chair so that he is now sitting upright once again, glaring at Griswold all the while.

"And just what would that be to you, Griswold? You've no knowledge of who I am or what I can do." He asks. "Ah, on the contrary, young lad," Griswold replies, removing his pipe from his mouth for a moment to speak. "I knew your father, Richard, brave man that he was. He passed through here a few times and told me of himself. Left you behind with your mother to become a great warrior, did he not?" John narrows his eyes at the blacksmith, unconsciously clenching his left fist until his knuckles pop.

"Do NOT speak that bastard's name in my presence! I've no time for men who leave their wives and children to starve, running off in search of some fake, vain glory." John snarls at Griswold, baring his teeth at the older man for good measure.

"Ah, calm yourself, young man. I meant no disrespect. Consider it forgotten." Griswold replies coolly, placing his pipe back in his mouth. John gives the blacksmith a thankful nod as a bar maid approaches them next. "You poor dear, you're still soaked to the bone. Would you care for something hot to drink, to warm yourself? I can put the kettle on and make some nice tea for you, if you want."

"That would be... Very nice, actually. My thanks, miss..." John trails off, realizing that he has yet to learn the woman's name. "Oh! Silly me. My name is Gillian. I'll be right back." And with that the woman skips off behind the counter, the sounds of clattering pots and pans filling the room soon after.

"If I may ask, what has happened to Tristram? To King Leoric?" John asks, noticing the sudden pained expressions that everyone in the tavern gained at his question.

"The two tales of which you speak are not quite so different, young lad. In fact, they go hand in hand. Elder Cain can tell the tale much better than I, however." Griswold replies, gesturing towards the old man standing by the fire.

"Ahh, the story of our king, is it?" The old man asks, turning to face John somewhat slowly. "The tragic fall of King Leoric was a harsh blow to the lands of Khanduras. Once, he was well-loved by the people. He had always been the holiest of men, as you no doubt know. Under his rule, the town of Tristram was vibrant, thriving, and beautiful. All was well for a time, but eventually the king began to be consumed by madness. He executed all who dared question his authority and began a suicidal war against our former ally, the Kingdom of Westmarch," Cain explains. John glances at the fire, remembering all too well how THAT suicidal war had turned out. Many good men had died in those days, for little to no reason at all.

"While the army was away fighting with Westmarch, Leoric's son, the young Prince Albrecht, disappeared. In a fit of rage, the king scoured the entire town of Tristram, searching for his lost son. When he was unable to find Albrecht, Leoric proclaimed almost half of the town to be involved in some way, and executed a great number of the townsfolk in his paranoia. He would have killed even more, were it not for one particular person..." John continues to listen to the tale in absolute silence. Was this truly the great King Leoric he had once heard of? How could he have brought himself to perform such dark deeds?

"It was around this time that Lachdanan, King Leoric's most loyal knight and captain of the army, returned to Tristram from the war with Westmarch. Upon seeing the state of Tristram, and believing that the king was now maddened beyond salvation, he decided to lead a revolt against Leoric. He entered the cathedral with a group of men and, after a short battle, cornered Leoric in his throne room. The knights with Lachdanan demanded an explanation, but Leoric merely spat defiance at them. Unable to allow things to continue as they were, Lachdanan slew good King Leoric in the cathedral. But with his last breath, the monarch cursed Lachdanan and his men, that they may serve him for all eternity. True to those words, Lachdanan and his men went to bury the king, and never returned from the cathedral. Thus is the tragic tale of King Leoric ended." Cain finishes his story, turning back to the fireplace.

John, meanwhile, sat in silence, unable to draw forth anything similar to a coherent sentence at that point. The story Cain had given him, if true, was a little... Overwhelming. What was a man to do with this information? Getting to his feet, John proceeds to remove the now thoroughly-dry traveler's cloak from his body, tossing it to the floor beside him and revealing his red armor, boots, and blue trousers.

"Here's your tea, warrior. Careful, it's a little hot." Gillian returns at that point, handing him a cup of warm tea. John takes it from her gratefully, glancing down into the mug for a second before deciding to ask the question. "What do I owe you for this?" Gillian waves a disapproving hand at his words. "Nothing, kind sir. What's left of us, we... We really don't have any need for money anymore." Her words struck a chord in John's chest. Tristram's plight was almost too much for him to bear, at that point. Which almost made him dread the next question he was going to ask.

"You've told me of King Leoric's demise, Elder Cain," John begins, giving the older man a title of respect. He had no idea why this frail old man commanded such respect. Perhaps it was due to the great deal of knowledge he seemed to have. "But you've said little of what has turned Tristram into... This." He pauses again, gesturing towards the open window nearby, where a glance outside would bring forth the image of the ruins of the town.

"Ahh, did I not? Much of the damage done to Tristram was done by King Leoric, as I have told you. There are possibly bodies still rotting in their homes, in some places." John wrinkles his nose in disgust as Cain reveals this particular bit of disturbing information. "The rest of the damage was done by dark things that emerge from the bowels of the cathedral at night; demons, if you will. By day, we work our fields and places of business as we always do, trying in vain to forget the horrors that lurk beneath that accursed place. By night, we huddle in the tavern, here, praying for the light of the day to come forth and keep us safe. You are lucky to have arrived here as expediently as you have. I have no doubt that even as we speak, the dark ones prowl the ruins of our town, seeking another victim to slaughter." John leans back in his chair as Cain finishes his story, feeling rather unnerved by that. Fighting against men was something he had no problems with; men were predictable, at least in some things. Full-blooded demons, however, were quite another story. Still, these people needed his help. He would gladly help them defend the tavern tonight.

"You are not the first warrior to arrive in Tristram, as I'm sure you know," John's ears perk up as Cain begins speaking once more. "A steady stream of men and women from all corners of the world have come here, whether motivated by greed or simply desiring to test themselves against the evil that lurks below. None so far have returned from the cathedral. The most recent was a rogue of the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye, come here searching for a sorcerer. Both have disappeared into the labyrinth below the town... You, however, have a hardened look about you. I daresay you are destined for great things, young man." John glances up as the old man smiles at him, draining the rest of his tea.

"Thank you, Elder... It is a fine compliment, though possibly misdirected. I am certainly not the greatest warrior in all of Khanduras. Still, I thank you for the stories and the hospitality you have shown. You have given me much to think about." Getting to his feet, John walks across the tavern, placing his now empty mug on the tavern's counter. A man somewhat shorter than John dressed in typical peasant clothes takes it and begins cleaning it out.

"You are planning to venture beneath the cathedral, master? I know that look anywhere. I've seen it in the eyes of many of my recent patrons. Tristram needs your help, good warrior. As Cain has described, our King Leoric is no longer with us... At least, in a figurative sense, that is." John raises an eyebrow at that. What exactly was this man speaking of?

"What do you mean?" He asks. "What Cain did not tell you about Leoric is the dark twist that the story takes after Lachdanan's revolt. Perhaps he thinks you are simply a traveler, come seeking refuge from the storm. But I know you warriors too well. Our former king has risen from his once-eternal sleep, and now commands a legion of undead minions beneath the cathedral. There he lays three levels beneath the church, in the putrid darkness, waiting for his chance to destroy this land. Please, I beg you, put his soul at ease by destroying his now cursed form..." John grimaces slightly, turning about and heading to the exit of the tavern. He pauses just in front of the door, sighing heavily before pushing it open and stepping out into the rain once more.

Walking down the path in between the tavern and Griswold's shop, John glances up at the cathedral before him, which continued to dominate the landscape. As he comes closer, he can see a large cemetery to the right of it, the dilapidated tombstones greeting him eerily. The entrance to the cathedral was lit up with an ominous, unholy red light that pierced through the rain and fog easily, as were the windows of the ancient building.

Rounding the corner, John stops immediately as a groan draws his attention elsewhere. Lying there just outside the entrance on the ground was perhaps one of the townsfolk, a pool of blood surrounding his maimed body. Quickly, John rushes to the man's side, kneeling next to him as his body lets forth a haggard cough.

"Please, you must listen to me. The Archbishop Lazarus, he led us down here to find the lost Prince. The bastard led us right into a trap! Now everyone is dead... Killed by a demon he called the 'Butcher'. Avenge us! Find this demonic butcher and slay him so that our souls may finally rest..." The man reaches out towards John, who immediately clasps his hand tightly. With one final, wet cough, the man's grip slackens as his head lolls to the side and his breathing stops. John sighs heavily, reaching down and closing the man's eyelids before getting to his feet.

"You WILL be avenged..." With new-found determination, John takes a deep breath before shoving open the doors of the cathedral and descending down into the great darkness below...


End file.
